All American Rejects
by Faded Smiles
Summary: A football accident in Stan's senior year of high school leaves him paralyzed from the waist down. Three years later, his friends have escaped from South Park while he rots away. The only person left is Craig Tucker.
1. Stan

Disclaimer: Mmm'kay. I obviously own nothing. South Park belongs to Matt Stone, Trey Parker, and Comedy Central.

Author's Note: Hello, reader. Thank you for taking an interest in my story. You can expect plenty of coarse language from the characters' since I'm keen on staying true to South Park. There may be gay slash down the road. Besides language, this story has earned the rating M for future drug use. If both subjects make you uncomfortable, please do not read. You have been warned.

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><p>All American Rejects<p>

Ever since the start of high school, Stan Marsh had been fortunate enough to have it all. Being on the football team made him naturally one of the most popular guys on campus. The fact that he was also the captain and starting quarterback gave him plenty of attention as well. However, as with most matters in life, too much of one thing always led to severe consequences.

The nightmare was still fresh in the young man's mind.

There was only one minute left of the big homecoming game. The weather conditions were appalling. Rain was pouring from the sky, and the field was a slippery mess. The South Park Cows could hardly see a foot in front of them.

Even with all the odds against the players, Stan was the leader for his team. He had the ball. He was about to cross into the end zone. Unfortunately, one of the vicious running-backs from Middle Park tackled him in a most brutal manner. The last few seconds of the clock ran out, and the South Park Cows lost the most paramount game of the year to the Middle Park Cowboys.

However, the crushing lost was not the end of Stan's misery. His reputation with the student body was no longer top priority; the horrendous force behind the tackle left him immobilized on the field. Once it was apparent that Stan was not moving, the disappointment and anger faded into mass hysteria. His mother forced her way through the crowd, running onto the field in tears.

Stan was not sure who called the ambulance, but one finally arrived after about a half hour in the freezing cold. The worst part was that he was trying to console Sharon, though he was in a state of utmost panic on the inside. He was not capable of moving his toes. Despite the severe tackle, Stan felt surprisingly numb below his waist, which scared the living daylights out of him. Typically, he ached everywhere.

Hours dragged at an exceptionally slow crawl at Hells Pass Hospital. The less than stellar staff broke the horrible news to Stan in the early hours of the next morning: He was paralyzed from the waist down, and he was never going to walk again.

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><p>Dear Diary,<p>

Life as a paraplegic sucks major ass. None of my friends rip on me anymore. Because I wasn't born this way, it's like they all treat me differently… I feel like Timmy and Jimmy are treated as full members of society compared to me.

You know what it's like? It's like everyone's bummed out to be around me. Kyle forces these broken smiles and tries to be encouraging. Cartman doesn't remind me of how much of a raging pussy I am. And Kenny never talks about all the fun he has with his dick in front of me. They're all walking on goddamn eggshells, and I hate it.

Why in the hell should I have to be trying to make them feel better? I'm the fucking cripple! It's like I'm an eyesore to look at. It's like I should be swept under a rug. It's like everyone should just forget about me… I'm obviously way too depressing to be around.

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><p>"Aww…AWW…" Stan moaned, setting the old book aside on his nightstand. The pages were written during his senior year of high school. He was twenty-one now and still hated life. His friends, on the other hand, were off to bigger and better things.<p>

Kyle was attending Harvard Medical School. Stan had a pathetic hope that his super best friend was looking for a cure for him, but he knew the redhead always aspired to help people from a young age. Kyle lived in Boston full time now, and he only came to visit during the holidays and the summertime.

Cartman merely got lucky. His photography, which consisted of plenty scandalous pictures featuring Butters, was noticed by some Hollywood bigwigs, and the fat bastard was now living it up in LA while shooting anorexic models.

Aside from sex, Kenny always had a knack for fixing up cars. The blond decided to stop being as useless as his parents. After high school, Kenny landed a job at an auto shop in Denver. He was also able to sober up his siblings and take them along with him. The three of them never looked back.

Frankly, Cartman and Kenny were basically nonexistent in Stan's life, and Kyle was a close faceless contender.

"I should've got a football scholarship. I should've been the first one out of this town…" Stan murmured bitterly to himself.

Talking to himself was sadly a pastime that became commonplace over the years. He typically had nobody to spend time with besides his family. While he was once the center of the town's pity, he was currently a pathetic ghost of a person. People on the street gave him occasional empty sympathy and small talk. Other townsfolk offered Stan looks that they would never give the able-bodied passersby. Subsequently, Stan decided he would rather be truly alone than feel alone; he was a major shut-in.

"Stan, honey… It's already after noon," Sharon greeted in a quiet voice, opening her son's door without knocking. "It's time to help you out of bed. And I need to check your catheter. I feel like we can't be too careful after that urinary tract infec—"

"Shut up, Mom!" Stan cried, horrified and embarrassed for his mother to bring such up. The fact that it was only the pair of them in the room ceased to matter. He absolutely despised feeling like some eighty-year-old man. Sadly, Stan found it easy to understand why his late grandfather always asked his grandson to euthanize him.

"Stan…" Sharon sighed in a tired way.

"I can take care of that myself, okay? I can still use my goddamn arms!" Stan fired back rapidly. Despite his tone of voice, he was actually fighting back tears.

"I care about you, and I love you. You've been in your room for so long… And after that…infection, I thought you could use some extra help." The tension was so thick, and it was something that Sharon would never be able to get used to.

"It doesn't matter how long I've been in here! I can be in bed as long as I want; I can turn myself. It's not like I'm getting a bunch of pressure sores," Stan reminded through gritted teeth, hoping that would be enough to get his mother off her catheter kick. He was only human—wasn't he allowed to make some mistakes?

"Ten minutes, young man. I want you in the bathroom taking care of yourself in ten minutes. Besides, I told your father you two would have some TV time together." Sharon carefully avoided mentioning the Broncos game.

"Whatever! Just leave…" Stan grumbled. Even after three years, he still hated others watching his independent struggle out of bed.

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><p>"Fine. But I'm going to be back to check on you," Sharon said firmly. With one more sharp look, she finally left her son to his arduous task.<p>

"Can you believe it, Stan?" Randy asked his son, taking a sip of his beer. The hour never was important to him. The middle-aged man figured there was always time to have fun. "Boy, I sure don't see how these Wall Street saps actually agree to support their useless wives. I mean, if your mother didn't cook or clean, there'd be problems."

Stan rolled his eyes. Who in the hell was the old man trying to impress? He decided to answer Randy's question with another question. "Dad, why are we watching _Pregnant in Heels _when the Denver Broncos are playing the Chicago Bears right now?" The young man cracked open a beer of his own. Stan never was much of a drinker due to his weak stomach. However, if he could get a buzz going, maybe life's harsh edges would be softened.

"Ooh!" Randy gasped in a dumb surprised manner, spilling a bit of his beer. "That? Oh, is the game on? Jesus, I didn't really remember. God, Bravo just has such good television. I love it so, son."

"Are you trying to fool me or yourself?" Stan snapped, clenching the aluminum can tighter in his hand. He slammed the beer down on a nearby end table. "Even if you like this retarded crap, you LOVE football!"

Randy gawked at his angry son. "W-Well, son, it's just… You know…" He gesticulated with his free hand in a vague way, almost as if the awkward gesture was supposed to finish the rest of his sentence.

"What? Just because football ruined my life doesn't mean the Denver Broncos stopped being my favorite team!" Stan's icy blue eyes were burning directly into Randy. "And if you're gonna keep this bullshit up, then I'm going to wheel myself down to the goddamn bar and watch the game myself!" At least that freak Halfy was usually there, who made Stan feel tremendously better, considering the old war veteran had no legs.

"Sh-Sharon! Sharon, get in here!" Randy implored. Stan pinched the brim of his nose.

Sharon stepped into the living room from the kitchen. "Would you two keep it down in here? I'm trying to make our lunch." She put her hands on her hips, eyeing both of her men in a keen fashion.

"Stan's saying how he wants to ditch me for the guys at the sports bar," Randy informed his wife in a juvenile way. His tone suggested he was telling on his son. "…'sides, they're my friends and stuff."

"Stanley, you watch TV with your father," Sharon demanded. "Every time you watch football, you sink into a depression. It's not good for you."

"You're both forgetting that I'm a fucking adult! I can watch whatever I want on TV!" Stan argued back. "I hate both of you, and you're not adding to my quality of life! You're only making my life a living hell!"

The vicious words hit home for Randy and Sharon. A horrible silence ensued. Randy took a much needed swig of beer, though he felt as if he needed something stronger. Sharon's cross expression faded into a heart broken one.

Jumping on the window of opportunity, Stan wheeled himself out of the living room and towards the front door. First, the dark-haired male wisely opened the closet. He reached around to grab the handicap reacher out of the backpack on his wheelchair. Making full use of the device, Stan struggled a bit to retrieve his coat from its hanger. After bringing it down, Stan stored the foldable reacher and worked on getting dressed.

Unfortunately, Sharon recovered enough to rush over to the door. The woman stopped directly in front of it. "Stanley, just where do you think you're going?" she demanded. "We can talk about this! You're only going to upset yourself more by being out in town!"

"I'd rather have them look at me than have the pair of you keep me in a plastic bubble!" Stan countered coldly. He zipped up his coat. "Get out of the way, Mom."

"…If you're not back by five o'clock, I'm coming to find you," Sharon cautioned. Honestly, they all could afford a break from each other. "…Do you have your cellphone on you?" she checked.

"Yeah, yeah…" Stan retorted crabbily. He grabbed his poofball hat and gloves out of his backpack, putting them on next.

"I mean it, Stanley," Sharon told him sharply.

"I told you that I did!" Stan snapped, giving her a death glare. To further his point, he pulled his phone out of his pocket for a moment before putting it away.

Sharon sighed dejectedly. Finally, the older woman opened the door for her son, who wheeled himself out into the frigid air. "Take care, Stanley…"

"Uh huh," Stan grumbled, rolling down the wheelchair ramp as fast as his wheels could carry him.


	2. Craig

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

Author's Note: Hey, South Parketeers. Ready for another one? I'd like to thank everybody that read and reviewed the first chapter. I really appreciate knowing what you all think. Maybe this chapter will be your favorite chapter. P: Anyway, have a rootin' tootin' good time. Sit back and enjoy chapter two: intro to Craig.

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><p>"I don't understand. It's supposed to be free!" An old decrepit lady was looming over Craig Tucker's register at Jim's Drug.<p>

"No, there's sales tax in Colorado," Craig corrected flatly in his typical monotone voice. "Even with all your coupons, you still owe thirty-nine cents." Although the young man was quite used to this cheap behavior by now, he still found it to be completely stupid. _'Does my face look that dishonest?'_ he thought to himself, feeling annoyed.

"No, no, no! See, this was supposed to cover the whole bill. I did the math myself, sonny," the old bat insisted, squinting through her coke-bottle lenses to see the monitor.

"You didn't factor in the sales tax," Craig repeated in his nasally, bored voice. A line was beginning to form behind the old bitch. There were no baggers today, and they were understaffed as it was, so Craig had to do it all. "If we put back the milk, then you won't owe anything."

"NO! I need that for my cats!" she screeched, waving an arthritic finger in Craig's face.

'_Yeah? And I need to buy lettuce for my guinea pig…'_ Craig told himself, though he simply rolled his eyes at the woman.

"Don't sass me with that attitude, you delinquent!" The old woman was becoming quite irate. Suddenly, Jim himself was rushing onto the scene.

"Craig! We don't care about a few pennies here and there! I'm so sorry, ma'am!" Jim apologized courteously.

"It's not a few pennies. It's a quarter, a dime, and four pennies. And you're always complaining about the register being short,"Craig quipped apathetically.

"You can't trust these young ones! I'm sure things are just short because HE is stealing!" she told Jim wrongly. "That thirty-nine cents he claims I owe should come out of HIS paycheck! And you're lucky that this is the only grocery store in town, or I might not come back otherwise!"

"Oh, yes, Mrs. Jankins. That will be duly noted," Jim retorted considerately. He finished the transaction and the cash drawer opened. The middle-aged man shot Craig a bitter look and extended his hand. After rolling his eyes a second time, Craig took the change out of his own pocket, putting it in his boss's palm. "You have a nice day now. Would you like any help out to your car?"

"I would, but not from this hooligan! He'd probably try to steal that, too!" Mrs. Jankins scoffed.

Jim bagged the last of her groceries and placed them in her cart. "Not a problem, ma'am. I'll take care of you," he stated politely, heading out with the old bat.

Underneath the counter, Craig's middle finger was raised. He lifted it as soon as they turned their backs.

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><p>My name's Craig Tucker.<p>

I live in a piece of shit podunk town called South Park. I'm twenty-two years old. I like to point and shoot with a wide angle lens in my spare time. The best thing to shoot is Stripe II. She's why I bother getting up in the morning. She's the only living thing I like. I hate everyone else, especially my family.

Friends? Token and Clyde went to college (the only reason why the latter shithead is passing). They'll probably never come back. Tweek's family moved down to Denver for better business opportunities. If the coffee still tastes like battery acid, then it probably won't matter. Last I heard Tweek was on a coke binge. He might have OD'ed.

I barely passed high school because I don't give a shit about grades. I'm not going to bother with that college bullshit. All I need is to get my shit seen by one famous director, and then I'm in. If I went to art school, all I'd get is a boner. That would be stupid.

I work a dead-end job at Jim's Drug, which I landed in my junior year of high school. Ever since then, I saved for my own place. I might have independence, but I'm still in South Park. It sucks seeing my family at different places.

I keep saying I'll go somewhere else when my lease is up, but I never do. It's all just too much effort. Whatever. At least it's nice and boring.

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><p>"HEY! You're not supposed to smoke in the break room! What are you, retarded?" Filmore Anderson castigated. "And what the hell are you writing, fag? Your suicide note? God, you're lame."<p>

"Talk to a wall, dilhole," Craig said in a flat, even tone. He put the mostly spent cigarette out on the corner of the paper he was writing on. Afterward, the dark-haired young man closed the college-ruled notebook and flicked the butt on the cheap linoleum floor.

"You're such a loser. You've been working here for years and never got promoted. You should have a real job by now," Filmore informed Craig in his know-it-all voice. "I'm gonna be out of here by the summer and living it up at ASU."

"Uh huh. Because you have a rich, fat dyke for an aunt." Craig did not bother to make eye contact with the jock. He sauntered over to his locker to put his notebook away.

"I don't have shit for brains, either," Flimore countered, folding his arms across his chest. He shook his head before going over to the time clock to punch out for his lunch break.

"Yep. And if I had wheels, I'd be a wagon," Craig stated knowingly. He flipped Filmore off as he stepped back over to the clock. The jock gave him a little shove but exited to go eat lunch at City Wok. Afterward, Craig punched back in to finish the remainder of his pointless day.

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><p>"Careful not to smash my bread," a middle-aged woman cautioned as Craig bagged her groceries. His shift was nearly over. He was thankful that he would not have to be the one closing the register tonight.<p>

"Okay," Craig stated apathetically. After working here for so many years, he was quite familiar with how to bag groceries. Every customer always seemed to have their own input, though. Craig finished bagging her groceries and glanced up at her. "Need any help out to the car?" he questioned, but he mostly looked at such as an empty gesture.

"No, no. Not today. Thanks," she said blandly. Once the transaction was finished, she took her receipt, cart of groceries, and left.

"Ugh…" Craig groaned once she was out of earshot. He slouched a bit as he glanced down at his watch. There were only five minutes left to endure.

Suddenly, Craig was greeted with a surprise as Stan Marsh came wheeling his pathetic ass up to the register. The crippled youth struggled some as he threw a case of Heiniken up on the conveyor belt, along with a bottle of the cheapest whiskey they had at Jim's drug. Craig quirked his brow as he began to scan the two items.

"Big party tonight? Oh, wait. All your friends left you. And you have no feeling in your dick," Craig rudely pointed out.

"HEY! I don't need your shit today, Tucker!" Stan cried, always sensitive and taking comments to heart. "You have no goddamn friends, either!"

"Oh," Craig retorted in an apathetic way, scanning the whiskey next.

Stan folded his arms across his chest in an agitated way. "Don't just 'oh' me, assmaster! Isn't it against the store's policy to make comments on people's purchases?"

"Go ahead and make your complaints. I don't care. I've yet to get fired." Craig's eyes flitted over to the monitor before looking down at Stan again. "Thirty-seven forty-two is what you owe me, Marsh."

"Fuck you. I have more of a life than that," Stan grumbled. He dug into his pocket and pulled out two crumpled twenty dollar bills. He practically threw them at Craig.

"Could have fooled me," Craig said flatly, taking the money and punching the amount in. The cash drawer popped open in its routine way as Craig put the bills away. "Two fifty-eight is your change," he informed out of habit. He gathered the appropriate bills and coins in his hand. Craig's grey eyes met with Stan's icy blue ones. "You should let go of your pride. I admit that I have no life."

The able-bodied teen leaned down, and Stan extended his hand to accept the change. "You don't know anything…" he mumbled, pocketing the money and looking away from Craig's seemingly judgmental gaze. "You don't know what it's like… Never mind. Just bag my shit."

"You know, a weak-stomached pussy like you needs someone else to drink with him. Unless you want to slip into a coma," Craig informed Stan, deciding on putting the items in a big brown bag so it would not break. "I get off in five minutes."

Stan caught Craig's drift immediately. He was disgusted with himself, for the idea of having some company around his own age sounded appealing, even though he hated the other young man so much. "Fine, whatever. I'll hang out in the front." Stan gave Craig a sharp look. "I'm only doing this 'cause I need to stay out of the house."

"Yeah. I hate my family, too," Craig stated simply. "Probably the only thing we got in common."

Stan literally winced at the idea of being remotely like Craig. "Just shut the fuck up while you're still ahead, dickhead." He reached up and Craig returned his purchase to him. Stan carefully balanced the bag on his lap and wheeled out of the store.

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><p>When four o'clock rolled by, Craig practically burst out of the automatic sliding door of Jim's Drug. He was finally free after an eight and a half hour work day. His gaze located Stan quickly. The fact that the handicapped man barely moved from the front of the store while he waited was somehow satisfying.<p>

"They make you park at the far end of the lot when you work here," Craig informed dully. It was far from a proper greeting. Stuffing his hands into the front of his navy blue hoodie, he began to walk forward, expecting Stan to follow.

"I don't care…" Stan stated automatically. The fact was that it hurt him to know that Craig was able to walk that much every day. He kept one hand holding onto the bag of booze while the other awkwardly moved the wheel of his chair forward.

Craig rolled his shoulders casually. "It's 'cause you're a crazy cripple." He noticed how Stan had to move at a slower rate to keep from spinning out of control while he steered himself with one hand. "You're really stupid. You should have an automatic chair," Craig told him, though his hands found the push handles.

"I LIKE a little effort. I LIKE using my goddamn arms," Stan snapped. He stopped moving and felt very uncomfortable; he did not trust Craig in the slightest. "I didn't ask for you to push me, Tucker!"

"This is faster," Craig rationalized in his usual monotone. He was not fazed by Stan's shouting in the slightest. While the wheelchair-bound man let out several more cries of protest, the able-bodied one acted as if he did not hear any of them.

In no time at all, the pair of them had reached Craig's beat up four-door Corolla. "I don't know what the hell I'm gonna do with this thing," Craig commented, referring to Stan's wheelchair.

"…We could just do it on foot," Stan muttered crabbily, not liking his own choice of words but knew there was no other way to say such.

Craig shook his head. "No. I've been standing all day." He pulled his set of keys out from his pocket, unlocking all the doors.

Stan frowned. He certainly did not like where this was going in the slightest. "Just what the fuck is going through that head of yours, asshole?" He stared Craig down as the other popped open the trunk. Stan became irked at the lack of an immediate response. Craig took the bag of booze from him, securing it in the trunk.

"Well?" Stan demanded, finding his patience growing thin.

"This," Craig stated calmly, opening the back door. In the next instance, he rolled Stan as close as he could to the car before shoving the crippled man into the backseat, dumping him out of his chair.

Stan's eyes grew wide with panic. This was not good! His upper body thrashed some, though he felt very hopeless with his useless dead legs and remained on his side. "T-This isn't funny, Tucker! How am I supposed to get around?" The thought of having virtually no independence terrified Stan to a great extent.

"We'll figure it out," Craig retorted apathetically. He shrugged his shoulders before slamming the car door. He did not bother to help Stan sit up or strap in.

"This isn't a goddamn joke! You don't care! You really don't care!" Stan cried in utmost panic. The sound was muffled through the closed car doors. Haphazardly, Craig rolled Stan's wheelchair into the cart collection area.

"Yep," Craig told him in his nasally way as he got into his seat. Taking the wheel, the able-bodied man brought the car to life. He only glanced behind him briefly before backing up and peeling out of the parking lot.


	3. Electric Feel

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

Author's Note: Wow. I'm so sorry this story took nearly two years to update. If any of you are still interested, here is the third chapter. The inspiration bug bit me. I wanted to finish this chapter that remained partially written for so long. Maybe I'll continue the story if people still enjoy it. Thank you so much for your supreme patience! (: I am not worthy.

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><p>Nausea ensued as the world whirled around Stan Marsh. Becoming carsick was a common occurrence for him, but the sensation was far worse since he could not look out the window. Craig Tucker was an unbelievable bastard. How could he be so damn casual and blasé about everything in the universe? Stan did not understand. Even with losing the feeling in his legs, he still felt human emotions. Craig acted as if he was some kind of robot.<p>

"I think we need to get a goddamn empathy chip installed…" Stan muttered to himself. He did not realize he said that aloud.

"So you talk to yourself? Guess I shouldn't expect anything less from a crazy cripple," Craig replied, his voice ever bland. He did not give a rat's ass about Stan's babble.

"I WASN'T talking to myself," Stan informed through gritted teeth.

"But saying random parts of your thoughts is totally natural," Craig quipped sarcastically. He was watching the road, yet he did not have the best regards to safety. He cut somebody off as he made an abrupt lane change. The other motorist beeped angrily in response. Craig offered his middle finger as a rebuttal.

Stan winced. He could feel how bad Craig's driving was without being able to see anything. "Just shut up and drive," Stan demanded, continuing to glare daggers into the back of Craig's seat.

The able-bodied man nonchalantly rolled his shoulders. "You must not have anyone to talk to, either…a second thing we have in common."

Stan wanted to die. "I'm starting to think you have a boner drawing these likenesses between me and you!" the handicapped one snapped. Craig knew how to goad Stan like a professional. "Shouldn't you be looking for differences?"

"But that wouldn't piss you off," Craig informed like it was the most obvious motive in the world. He took a left turn into his apartment complex, quickly pulling into his usual parking space. Subsequently, Craig killed the engine of the car.

"…We're here?" Stan inquired. He attempted to push himself up into a sitting position now that there was no movement.

"Yep," Craig answered in his typical manner. He shuffled to his feet and went around to the back of his Corolla. The dark-haired man popped his trunk open. Naturally, he thought to retrieve the booze before his reluctant company. "I'm bringing this up first."

"Take your time," Stan remarked dryly. He finally succeeded with his struggle of sitting upright from his awkward position. His blue eyes took in the surroundings easily. Stan came to the conclusion that Craig resided in the shitty apartment complex just before the railroad tracks. South Park was only so big. Stan had lived there his entire life; he was familiar with every aspect of the mountain town.

"Yeah, not like you can go anywhere." The way Craig said that added insult to injury. "Ritzy, huh?" he asked Stan sarcastically. He did not care whether he had the cripple's approval or not.

Stan rolled his eyes. He had to wonder if Craig was worse than his old man for company. "It's a wonder you haven't gotten robbed or killed," he decided flatly. Craig did not answer him as he made his way into the apartment. Stan was at the other man's mercy.

After what felt like an eternity to Stan, the door to the rundown building opened again, and out came Craig. He considered Stan for a moment before deciding to offer him his back. Craig kneeled down before the helpless man. "Can you grab on?" he asked without really caring.

"You really think you can give me a piggyback ride? You don't have any fucking muscle, Tucker," Stan reminded. The idea would have been laughable if he was not in such a hopeless predicament.

"Yeah. And your body's in peak condition from all that football conditioning. Oh, wait…" The years of being bound to a chair forced Stan to kiss his athletic build goodbye. He was considerably weaker and thinner than he was in high school, and he was shorter than Craig.

Stan's face contorted with hurt and rage. "SHUT UP!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. If people in the apartment complex cared, they would have surely peered out of their windows from how loud Stan shouted. Alas, the shoddy building remained eerily still. The temptation to punch Craig in the back of the head was very high.

"It's been a few years since you've been useful, idiot," Craig decided. He was the complete opposite of Stan. Even with being yelled at, his tone did not falter once. "Just don't start crying on my shoulder. As much as I love laundry, I don't look forward to washing crusty snot off of my hoodie."

"I'm not going! Just take me back to my chair!" Stan shouted in defiance. He was too upset to care that Craig had his alcohol. He merely desired to curl up and sulk in his room.

Craig heaved a sigh. The thought of returning was too much effort for his liking. He turned around when he realized Stan was not going to cooperate with him. "That'd be counterproductive." Craig leaned in close. One hand settled underneath Stan's useless legs while the other snaked around Stan's waist. He pulled back from the car, straightening up. Craig was now carrying Stan bridal style.

"Wh-What?! Since when did anything you do ever have a point? Lemme go! NOW!" Stan screeched. He was beyond uncomfortable with his new position. His upper body squirmed in Craig's arms, though his legs remained as still as ever.

"You don't know me at all. I make a point to escape from reality," Craig confided. A tiny smirk was actually ghosting onto his lips. He closed the car door with his back and ventured back towards the building. Stan definitely had lost weight over the years. Craig was not having much trouble supporting the crippled man.

"Jesus Christ…" Stan grumbled. He pinched the brim of his nose and shut his eyes tight, which were the telltale signs of how embarrassed and annoyed he was. His body stilled in Craig's arms; he seemed to be giving up on his struggle. The crippled man no longer had the energy to fight. All Stan wanted to do now was get obliterated and far away from his sorry reality.

* * *

><p>After two beers, five shots of whiskey, and a few hits off a bong (he lost count of just how many), Stan actually felt pretty good. The young man forgot about how crappy the world was. He forgot about how crappy Craig's tiny one-bedroom apartment was. There was hardly any room. The living room consisted of a worn, black futon couch, a dated and tiny TV, a shoddy coffee table held up by cinder blocks, and a rather spacious cage for Stripe II. The cage took up about ten and a half square feet and even had a little loft for Stripe II to climb up into. The little rodent lived in paradise while Craig lived in cramped corridors. Stan had not seen anything but the living room, but he was sure Craig's bedroom sucked just as much. But with his love of animals, he admired how much space Craig allotted for the guinea pig.<p>

The living space was open and connected with the kitchen, which was like the size of a closet. Instead of a real fridge, there was a mini-fridge. Craig did not seem to do much cooking. The stovetop was crammed next to the sink. There was hardly any counter space, and the microwave looked as archaic as the TV. Craig did not have a table and probably ate on the couch when he was at home. Stan could not see the bathroom either, but he could assume it was just as small and likely had little room between the shower and toilet.

The coffee table had Craig's laptop propped up on it. Other than the guinea pig's cage, it was probably the most expensive thing he owned. It was some kind of Macbook. Stan was not exactly sure how new it was, but it looked pretty spiffy. Craig had it open. Music was playing on it, but Stan was not quite sure of the band. It sounded good enough for the mellow mood, though.

"Soooo…. This music's pretty sweet, but you totally should be playing The Cure, dude," Stan drawled out. He was spread out on the futon comfortably, not even caring that his dead legs were draped across Craig, who was sitting up but was slouched backward.

"I dig MGMT," Craig replied initially. The song "Electric Feel" was playing. He was idly fiddling with Stan's right foot and was waggling it about. He was watching Stripe II munch on a big mound of hay. "Huh? You really like that eighties new wave stuff?"

"Dude. The Cure's so much more than that and so much more than just goth. Y'know, Robert Smith saved everyone in this whole goddamn town from that Streisand bitch. People seem to forget about that fact," Stan rambled on drunkenly.

"Oh. Ohhh… Yeah, that shit feels like a dream." Craig turned his head and looked over at Stan. "We were kids… All that crazy kid shit feels like a dream."

"But it was real, dude. So fucking real, Tucker," Stan insisted with a lazy grin. "Just like Peru. 'member Peru? How come your guinea's not giant?"

"Shuddup, Marsh. That fucking sucked and you know it. I don't get why you get off on those stupid, lame adventures." Craig's usual monotone did not sound so harsh. "Normal guinea pigs are about the size of your foot. What world're you living in?"

"The real one. The one that sucks ass. Say whatcha want, but those adventures were SOMETHING, dude," Stan retorted. He sounded like quite the adamant drunk.

"You just get off on feeling like a hero…" Craig decided with a smirk.

"Yeaaaaaah. And you get off to being a dick, dick," Stan quipped back. He felt pretty witty with his redundant comeback.

There was a comfortable lull in their conversation. The silence would have normally bothered Stan a lot, but now everything felt rather natural. Craig kept watching the crippled man, who shut his eyes and relaxed further. Stan was not thinking about being judged by Craig or anyone. He was not thinking about being someone that the whole town practically felt sorry for. Right now, he just was. He existed peacefully.

Stan did not feel when Craig lifted his useless legs from his lap. The able-bodied man crawled up on the couch and straddled over the handicapped one. All of this went unnoticed until Stan felt a pair of hands begin to knead his shoulders. His bloodshot eyes fluttered open. "The fuck're you doing?" Stan slurred, looking up at Craig. Some color flooded to his usually pale cheeks.

"Just curious if all your 'effort' kept your arms from wasting away. They're kinda toned," Craig observed in a casual way. He ran his hands from Stan's shoulders down to his biceps and forearms. "Good job." The sarcastic words were said without malice.

"Shuddup…" Stan grumbled, giving Craig a little push. The young man remained on top of him. "They're better than your stupid chicken arms."

"These 'chicken arms' could lift you easily. You're such a tough man." Craig raised his middle finger in front of Stan's face. Without thinking, Stan lifted his head up and nipped the tip of Craig's finger. For once, Craig's usually stoic face showed some traces of surprise. "The hell?"

"Your reflexes're as slow as fuuuuck," Stan teased, grinning broader. He felt proud of himself. "Now get offa me."

Oddly enough, Craig felt like he had something to prove for once. It was probably from being so trashed. He doubted that cripple could have faster reflexes than him. In the next instant, he leaned in and caught Stan's lips in a sloppy, wet kiss.

"Mhh…" Stan groaned. He was unable to get out of the way in time. But even when he realized what happened, he still was not trying to get away. He hated Craig, but why did that matter right now? Nothing mattered in Craig's world, and he told himself he was not going to remember any of this. He had not gotten any action like this since high school. Following instinct, Stan nipped down on Craig's lower lip and forced his tongue into the other's mouth. Perhaps he was trying to see if he could feel again. He was not thinking.

Stan draped his arms around Craig's neck and shut his eyes. Craig's eyes shut as well. His hands slid up underneath Stan's long-sleeved, black cotton shirt. The two of them continued to indulge each other in drunk, sloppy, deep kisses.

Neither of them noticed Stan's cell phone ring. The time was well after five.

* * *

><p>Sharon was beginning to grow very worried. Stan had a habit of ignoring her phone calls, but he usually picked up after three attempts. This was the tenth attempt. "Just where could he be?!" she wondered desperately.<p>

Naturally, this led to Sharon using more resources. Randy was on his cell phone, too. "Really? Well, thanks anyway. Take it easy." He hung up. "…I just got off the phone with Jimbo. Stan never went to the bar, Sharon."

"What?!" This news disturbed Sharon more. How far could Stan really go in his wheelchair? "Get your coat, Randy! We're going out looking!"

Randy rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, five o'clock's kinda an early curfew for a twenty-one-year-old. Maybe he's just out with his friends?" he offered. The man was somewhat worried but trying not to overreact.

"What friends? They all left, Randy! Stan could be out there doing something stupid!" Sharon reminded in a pointed way. Without hearing any further arguments, Sharon seized Randy by the wrist. She dragged the two of them out to the car without even grabbing their coats.

* * *

><p>Randy and Sharon drove around South Park for an hour. They scoured the small town's main street. There were not many places Stan could hide. He used to enjoy visiting Stark's Pond often, but his chair had difficulty navigating some of the terrain surrounding the area. There was a path there, but Stan found it cruel for the lake to be so close yet so far away.<p>

Sharon's worries were not being assuaged. Nothing Randy said was helping the situation any. Each word just seemed to irk or worry her more, so the man had been keeping his mouth shut. Eventually, they stopped at the gas station that was across the street from Jim's Drug.

As Randy pumped the gas, Sharon's eyes grew wide. In the distance, she could see Stan's wheelchair crammed in the cart collection area. Stan was nowhere in sight.

"Randy, look!" she cried anxiously.

"Huh?" Randy was a little slower, but he was able to put two and two together fast enough. "N-Now don't panic, Sharon. Uh, he could just be, you know…"

"No, Randy! I'm calling the police! Something terrible has happened! Stan can't just leave his wheelchair!" Sharon reminded. She whipped out her cell phone and dialed 911.

"Calm down! Why don't we just ask people in the store if they remember seeing Stan?" Randy offered. He felt a tad embarrassed. Stan was not some helpless teenage girl. He liked to think his son would not get kidnapped even with his handicap.

"We'll do that when the police get here anyway!" Sharon did not want to take any risks. She had many regrets. She felt like she should have never let Stan play football. In a moment, she was connected to the police.

"911. What's your emergency?" the operator asked in a routine fashion.

"My emergency is that my son is missing!" Sharon cried, hoping for Officer Yates to be dispatched over Officer Barbrady. She wanted to find Stan as soon as possible. She wanted to find her son alive. She wanted to keep her baby safe from any further harm.


	4. Surprise

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

Author's Note: Lo and behold! An update! I'm very sorry if there's anyone still with me and if you've been waiting this long. Thank you so much! You guys are the best. I want to try to finish this story, and I'd like to update it on a monthly basis. Let's see how I do from here on out.

* * *

><p>"Stan…" Kyle was staring at his super best friend. The blush on his face was the same color as the mess of wild red curls on his head. "Dude, you don't know how long I've been waiting for this. It's just… It's really… Wow…" His gaze cast down. He was too shy to keep looking at Stan.<p>

"Dude, I know, right?" Stan responded. He cupped Kyle's hot cheek. "The time's right. I know it. You know it. We can just feel it."

Kyle considered before nodding. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right, Stan."

Stan smiled. He hadn't smiled so brightly in years. He nudged Kyle back on the bed and straddled his hips. Both of them wore no clothes. There were no barriers between them. They could experience skin on skin, appreciating each other's bodies to the fullest. He ran his hands down Kyle's pale, lean chest, trailing south to his abdomen. His fingertips traced over the faded scar from his friend's kidney transplant. It reminded Stan of the fact how he would do anything for his super best friend.

He leaned in close, tilting his head. His kissed Kyle's open mouth on a slant. Kyle's arms looped around Stan's neck, bringing them impossibly closer. The kiss left Stan with a warm feeling that started in his stomach and spread throughout his entire body. This was euphoria, and it was only going to get better. They were finally going to take things to the next level.

"Stan… I'm ready," Kyle shared, his voice husky from desire. He only pulled back enough to speak, his lips brushing against Stan's.

"Sweet, dude." Stan stared back at him, completely captivated. He would never get tired of looking at Kyle. "So glad you're home. Kyle, you are home…"

Stupid reality set in with a pounding in Stan's head and a nauseated stomach. He groaned. He forced his eyes open, and they came into contact with the cheap tile ceiling that was nothing like the solid plaster that covered his own. It took him a minute to remember that this was Craig Tucker's shitty apartment. "Jesus, dude…"

* * *

><p>The music was still playing from Craig's Macbook. His whole library seemed to be on shuffle mode. Stan wasn't familiar with whatever song was on. It all sounded like shit.<p>

Stan tried to sit up. He couldn't. There was a weight on his chest. Glancing down, his bleary eyes suddenly grew wide when he realized Craig was passed out on his chest. "Sick, dude!" Repulsed, he used all of his upper body strength to shove Craig off of him. He was satisfied that he was still strong enough for that, and the thud of Craig's body coming into contact with the thin, hard carpet made matters more rewarding. However, now wasn't the time to celebrate. "Wake up, asshole!" Stan shouted, glaring down at Craig.

A low groan rumbled from Craig's throat. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. Somehow, during their drunken make out session, he had lost his hoodie and the shirt underneath it. Stan's shirt was gone, too. "Well, thank God our pants stayed on," were the first words out of Craig's mouth. His voice was its usual nasally self despite the circumstances. He didn't appear fazed in the slightest. He wore that same poker face like always.

"Yeah, that's reason to celebrate!" Stan scoffed. He wanted to puke. Knowing him, that was a very likely possibility. It was a known fact that Stan tossed his cookies easier than anyone else in South Park. "What the hell time is it?!"

Craig shrugged his shoulders. He looked towards Stripe II's cage, as if the guinea pig would have the answer. The guinea pig emerged from her hideaway house, her spiky black and white fur fully visible now. She put her paws up on the grids of the cage and began wheeking at a piercing volume that made the pounding in Stan's head worse.

"Probably around midnight. It's usually when I give Stripe II her lettuce," Craig concluded. He got to his feet and strode over to the mini-fridge. Naturally, there was a head of Romaine lettuce in there. Craig tore off a large leaf and ran it under the cold tap water. He patted it dry in a paper towel. He did not give Stan a second glance.

"Midnight?!" Stan echoed. His mom's dumb curfew suddenly came rushing back to him. "Shit!"

"Hey, shut up," Craig ordered. He took a seat in front of Stripe II's cage and started tearing up the lettuce. "I don't want you scaring her."

Usually, Stan was more sensitive to animals, but right now his own problems were top priority. "No! I should've been back home seven hours ago!"

"At five?" Craig glanced over his shoulder at Stan. "What are you? Twelve?"

"Shut up, Tucker!" Stan snapped. "Just take me back to my chair already!"

"You like living at home, Marsh?" Craig asked. It wasn't that he cared. He wanted to make a point. "Because it's pretty pathetic. Just because you're a crazy cripple doesn't mean you can never work a job."

Stan furrowed his brow. "You're the LAST person I need advice from!" Craig was only feeding his fire. He was doing nothing to put out the flames. "What am I gonna do? Greet people at that shit grocery store you work for? I don't think so!" The last thing he needed was a handout job and the whole town's pity.

Craig's back was turned to Stan again. He put the torn up pieces of lettuce in a small ceramic bowl for Stripe II, setting it down next to her. "So football was everything, and you're nothing more than a dumb jock. No wonder I hate you," Craig stated on his usual bland note.

"And you're just a stupid asshole who graduated from cough syrup to weed!" Stan shot back. "Yeah, you've got a lot going on for you. Dude, I'm so jealous of your crappy one-bedroom apartment and your dead-end job. You'll be getting out of South Park for sure at this rate. Any day now, right?" Every word was venomous and dripping with sarcasm. Stan's gaze narrowed to a further extent. "Don't think you're better than me."

"No, of course not. That would be insanity," Craig answered, contending with Stan's sarcasm. He got to his feet and turned around. "And to prove how I'm not better than you, I'm going to _walk_ to my bedroom. Then I'm going to smoke a bowl to further illustrate your point." The able-bodied man wasted no time, making a beeline to his bedroom as promised.

Stan bristled. He hated watching Craig do what he no longer could not. Why did he of all people deserve to walk? "Not funny, Tucker! Take me back to my chair! Now!"

Unfortunately, Stan's demand fell on deaf ears. Craig made it to his bedroom and shut the door, fully prepared to hole up in there for the rest of the night.

"Son of a bitch, dude…" Stan scowled. What the hell was he going to do now?

An alert sounded off on his cell phone. Thankfully, it was still in his pants pocket. Stan dug it out. Upon looking at the screen, he realized there were fifteen missed calls, three voice messages, and five text messages. Most of them were from his worried mother, but a few of them were from his father. "Oh, god…" Things weren't looking good. Stan decided to peruse the text messages first, hoping that his mother hadn't gone too hysterical. Having a missing person's report filed on him would really suck ass.

Suddenly, there was loud banging outside Craig's front door. "This is the police! Open up before we have to break down the door!" Officer Barbrady shouted from outside.

"STAAAN?! Stan, you in there?!" Randy called out, sounding just as stupid.

Stan squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was horribly embarrassed, but at least pot was legal now in Colorado. Still, the cops were probably stupid enough to arrest Craig for kidnapping. "Yeah, I'm fine! Don't break down the goddamn door!"

But it was already too late. One of Barbrady's men police kicked the door open. There was never anything for the cops to do in South Park, so they were always quick to using excessive force.

"Stanley! Thank God!" Sharon cried upon seeing him.

Three cops and Barbrady rushed into Craig's apartment, leaving Randy and Sharon to file in behind them. Stan could hear the sound of more voices outside. There was likely a mob scene forming outside the apartment complex. Some people crowded in the doorway, but Barbrady kept them at bay. Half of the whole town probably came out since there was nothing else to do.

"Alright, alright! Nothing to see here, people! We've recovered the missing child!" Barbrady announced in his obnoxiously loud voice. He looked at the policeman on his right. "Call in and tell the other officers they can stop looking!"

"I'm not a child! I'm twenty-one, dude!" Stan complained.

Craig came out of his bedroom, mellow but totally confused. His living room seemed to have become a crime scene in a matter of seconds. He felt like he was on an episode _Cops_. "What the hell are all you people doing here?"

"Stay right where you are, you little troublemaker!" Barbrady ordered. He walked over to Stan, noting how his shirt was off. "Son, is he the one who raped and kidnapped you? Are we gonna have to press charges?"

Stan's face was red with embarrassment. "Wha-What?!" he stammered. He shook his head rapidly. "Ew, gross! No!"

"That's not what it looked like to us from the security tapes at Jim's Drugs!" one of the other police officers bellowed.

"You realize you could lose your job for this, Craig?!" Jim himself called from outside the door. He was just one of the many town members outside. "This is NOT in our policy at all when we ask if customers need help out!"

"You could lose a lot more than that! It looks like it's the big house for you, you little troublemaker!" Barbrady yelled. "Book him, Johnson!"

"STOP!" Stan screamed at the top of his lungs just as Officer Johnson was coming at Craig with handcuffs. The man froze, and the room fell silent. "I WASN'T raped or kidnapped! Tucker's always an asshole, but last time I checked that wasn't a crime! You're all making a big deal out of NOTHING! Jesus Christ!" The stupidity in this town never ceased to amaze Stan. "I DON'T wanna press any charges against him! This needs to end NOW!"

Stan could hear a collective disappointed groan sound off from the crowd. The people had wanted to see more action.

"Alright, alright! Nothing to see here, people! False alarm!" Barbrady announced. People from outside began to shuffle away. The police in the room, along with Randy and Sharon, remained. Barbrady shot Stan what was supposed to be a stern look through his stupid sunglasses. Why the hell did he need them at night? "I expect you to be more careful in parking lots in the future!"

* * *

><p>Stan had a hard time believing the fact that he was alive the next morning. He swore to himself that he should have died of embarrassment last night. Word traveled fast in the small mountain town. There was even a ridiculous article in the morning newspaper about how Officer Barbrady had rescued him from a sticky situation right before it turned ugly.<p>

"Hey, Stan! You made the front page!" Randy gawked.

"Dad, get that out of here!" Stan complained, mortified. He was trying to eat breakfast, and having last night's incident shoved in his face did nothing for his appetite.

Sharon was far from impressed. Once the relief of finding Stan wore off, she became angry. "There's a reason your story made the paper, Stanley. It serves as a cautionary tale to all the young people in this town. Why on earth would you have gone home with that Craig Tucker? Everyone knows he's a troublemaker."

Ever since grade school, Craig had earned that reputation. It wasn't one that he'd ever been able to shake. Stan thought it was unwarranted, really. Craig was a boring asshole. Just because he flipped people off didn't make him some kind of badass. His parents' worry was misplaced. Stan couldn't keep from rolling his eyes. "It wasn't a big deal, Mom. I can handle myself just fine. I was never in any danger."

Sharon sighed audibly. "You're still not answering my question. Why did you go with him? It really did look like you were forced from the security tapes."

"Aw, c'mon, Sharon! Boys will be boys!" Randy chimed in. "They probably just wanted to have some fun but couldn't get the wheelchair in the other kid's car."

The most disturbing part of his dad's assessment was that it wasn't completely off-base. His stupidity didn't get the best of him for once. "Uh, yeah. That's pretty much it. But whatever. I don't really owe you an explanation, and I shouldn't have a curfew in the first place. You need to not freak out if there's a next time." Stan doubted there would be. He hated Craig. "It's not like you have to worry. We're not friends, and I don't wanna hang out with him. I was just bored."

"Maybe I'll reconsider that if you learn to stay in contact with me," Sharon scolded. "Phones aren't just for playing games and texting on, Stanley. You're supposed to use them to call people and let them know if things come up. You think I liked worrying about you?" she lectured. "I was terrified that something bad might have happened to you."

Stan folded his arms across his chest. There was no way he wanted to finish his cereal now. "Yeah, yeah," he dismissed, not wanting to listen to her.

"Don't be such an old person, Sharon! Gawl!" Randy added, which earned another eye roll from Stan. He folded up the newspaper and got to his feet. "Well, gotta head into work now. You hang out with your new friend if you want, Stan."

"Dad, he's not my friend!" Stan whined. His dad was such an idiot and the farthest thing from cool. Stan hated when Randy tried to act as if he was the same age as him.

"Randy, quit downplaying the situation! I know you were worried last night, too," Sharon said.

"Uh-huh." Randy really wasn't listening anymore. "Love ya, too, Sharon," he replied, leaning in to kiss his wife on the temple. He sauntered out of the kitchen, grabbing his coat on the way before going to the garage.

Before Sharon could lecture Stan any further, the landline phone rang. She rose from the table and picked it up. "Hello? Oh, hi, Sheila."

Stan started to wheel himself away. He was done being chewed out, and he was in no mood to listen to old lady banter.

"You saw the paper last night? Yeah, we were scared, too. I was just telling Stanley how he needs to be more responsible."

Stan was already in the living room. He was making a beeline to the lift on the stairs. He just wanted to be alone in his bedroom. He was already so tired of his mother. However, the next thing she said made him stop dead in his tracks.

"Kyle's coming to visit? This weekend? Oh, Stan will be so excited!"


End file.
